Before the bright sun rises over the hill,
In the corn-field poor Mary is seen,
Impatient her little blue apron to fill
With the few scattered ears she can glean.
She never leaves off, or runs out of her place,
To play, or to idle and chat;
Except now and then just to wipe her hot face,
And fan herself with her broad hat.
"Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun,
How tired, and how warm you must be;
Why don't you leave off, as the others have done,
And sit with them under the tree?"
"Oh no, for my mother lies ill in her bed,
Too feeble to spin, or to knit;
And my poor little brothers are crying for bread, And yet we can't give them a bit.
"Then could I be merry, and idle, and play,
While they are so hungry and ill?
Oh no, I would rather work hard all the day,
My little blue apron to fill."
REMEMBER THE POOR.
When raging storms deform the air,
And clouds of snow descend;
And o'er the landscape bright and fair,
No deepened colours blend.
When biting frost rides on the wind,
Bleak from the north and east,
And wealth is at its ease reclined,
Prepared to laugh and feast.
When the poor traveller treads the plain,
All doubtful of his way,
And creeps with still-increasing pain,
And dreads the parting day.
When poverty, in mean attire,
Shrinks from the biting blast,
Or hovers o'er the scanty fire,
And fears it will not last.
Then let thy bounteous hand extend
Its blessings to the poor,
Nor spurn the wretched, while they bend
All suppliant at your door.
MAKE ROOM FOR MAY.
The last year's leaf, its time is brief
Upon the beechen spray;
The green bud springs, the young bird sings
Old leaf, make room for May!
Begone, fly away,
Make room for May.
Oh, green bud smile on me awhile,
Oh, young bird let me stay
What joy have we, old leaf, in thee?
Make room, make room for May!
Begone, fly away,
Make room for May.
May, thou month of rosy beauty,
Month when pleasure is a duty;
Month of bees, and month of flowers,
Month of blossom-laden bowers;
O thou merry month complete,
May, thy very name is sweet!
I no sooner write the word
Than it seems as though it heard,
And looks up, and laughs at me,
Like a sweet face, rosily.
If the rains that do us wrong
Come to keep the winter long,
And deny us thy sweet looks,
I can love thee, sweet in books;
Love thee in the poet's pages,
Where they keep thee green for ages.
Come, ye rains, then, if you will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.
In the barn the tenant cock,
Near dame partlet perched on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!) Joyful that the morning's nigh.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nursed by night, retire;
And the peeping sun-beam, now
Paints with gold the village spire.
Philomel forsakes the thorn,
Plaintive where she sings at night;
And the lark to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.
From the low-roofed cottage ridge,
See the chattering swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arched bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.
Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale;
Lambkins, now, begin to crop
Daisies, on the dewy dale.
From the balmy sweets uncloyed,
(Restless till her task be done)
Now the busy bee's employed,
Sipping dew before the sun.
Trickling through the creviced rock,
Where the limpid stream distils,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock,
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.
Sweet-O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossomed spray?
Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.
THE MORNING CALL.
Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour,
Long have the rocks cawed round the tower;
O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee,
And the wild kid sports merrily:-
The sun is bright, the skies are clear;
Wake, lady! wake, and hasten here.
Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air;
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream
Is dancing in the sunny beam;
Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay,
Leave thy soft couch and haste away.
Up! time will tell, the morning bell
Its service-sound has chimed well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
The reapers to the fields are gone.
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay,
Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away.
O'er the heath the heifer strays
Free (the furrowed task is done;)
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnished by the setting sun.
Trudging as the ploughmen go,
(To the smoking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengthened o'er the level ground.
Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home.
As the lark, with varied tune,
Carols to the evening loud;
Mark the mild resplendent moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!
Now the hermit howlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake;
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from his bosom springs;
To the banks, a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Tripping through the silken grass,
O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexioned lass
With her well-poised milking pail,
Linnets with unnumbered notes,
And the cuckoo-bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu.
THE EVENING PARTING.
The sun is down, the day gone by,
The stars are twinkling in the sky;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out a blithe but stinted day!
The hours have passed with stealthy flight;
We needs must part; good night, good night!
The lady in her curtained bed,
The herdsman in his wattled shed,
The clansman in the heathered hall,
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all;
We part in hopes of days as bright
As this gone by; good night, good night!
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We'll have our pleasures o'er again,
To warm the heart, to charm the sight!
Gay dreams to all! good night, good night!
FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.
How brightly and how gaily,
The sun keeps shining daily;
And when he sets, with friendly eye,
Looks at us from his path on high.
He surely means to tell us,
If we by day are zealous,
And strive to do our daily part,
At night we shall be light of heart.
His path is all a blessing,
And brightness never ceasing;
And still, before he leaves the sky,
He smiling bids us kind good bye.
Then with a gentle motion,
He dips the western ocean;
And soon through morning's gate he'll rise,
New splendour beaming from his eyes.
Like him, be up and doing,
With joy your path pursuing;
Then calmly may you end your way,
And wake to everlasting day!
J. S. Stallybrass. (by per.)
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